


Feeding The Animal

by TwilightEyes85



Category: Chronicles of Riddick (2004), Pitch Black (2000)
Genre: Abuse, F/M, Past Abuse, Sexual Slavery, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-23 07:16:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/619491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwilightEyes85/pseuds/TwilightEyes85
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She's been in hell for three years; he's been there ever longer. Right now she's what he needs and, just maybe, she needs him too. Set after CoR.<br/>Rape tag refers to past events.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Feeding The Animal

I was used to the fear. It had been a constant in my life for three years. I adjusted, had learned to deal. The Necros were a bad-ass breed. I had learned quickly how to survive. This one was no different. No different! Try as I might though, I couldn’t even convince myself of that. They were afraid of him, and that was saying something. It would be interesting to see how this new Lord Marshal would be. The old one hadn’t been bad; not to me at least. And I didn’t really care where I wasn’t concerned. This new one, well, his predecessor had even feared him. In three years, I hadn’t seen or heard of their Lord Marshal being scared of anything. That made me nervous.

  
Taking a deep breath, I tried to calm down. My thought process was accomplishing nothing but panic. My wrists and ankles ached from being bound, not that it had been long since I’d been brought to his room. It was odd that no matter how often my hands were bound, they always ached within twenty minutes. It was the same room I had been in before, the one given to the Lord Marshal. Not his bedroom; this room was reserved for him and his consorts. Not that that word applied to me. It implied a certain amount of willingness, which I did not have.

  
I wondered how long it would be. I knew he’d come (I rolled my eyes as the pun presented itself to me), but not when. Normally I didn’t have long to wait. The sooner it was over, the better. Damn. My wrists were killing me. I shifted, trying to get more comfortable. I was dressed comfortably, if you considered having barely any clothes on comfortable. I didn’t really. The skirt was knee length, but it had a slit in the side clean up to my hip. I had no panties on. No bra either. Only a sleeveless half-shirt that instead of seems had laces, designed to be removable without untying my hands. Not only sick bastards, they were clever, sick bastards.

  
“They could at least pad the chair!” I complained to nobody. Usually I was gagged, but not this time. I was bound with my wrists to the arms of the chair, my ankles to the legs. I couldn’t close my legs completely, but instinctively I did the best I could. This was the routine they normally used when leaving me for someone. It provided a place for that someone to fuck me without moving me, or a starting point if they wanted to set me up however they wanted. Some were kinky in the strangest ways. I guess it wasn’t surprising, since their kind came from all kinds, that some were majorly sick. Most were normal in their desires, but every now and then… I hoped this new Lord Marshal would be normal in that regard. It was so much easier to bear if they were normal.

  
I caught my breath as the door opened. In a way I was relieved: the sooner the better. On the other hand, I froze with fear. It was a familiar feeling, but stilled sucked.  
“My Lord, may I present a gift,” Lord Vaako said. I knew the man; I knew most of the Necro men. Into the room stepped the largest, most intimidating man I had ever seen. He was dressed in black cargo pants, a black tank, and boots. His eyes were covered with black goggles. Definitely has a color scheme going here, I thought to myself. The new Lord Marshal. He was about six feet, well over my own 5’ 2”. He was… well, ripped.

  
Vaako left the room, closing the door behind him. Alone. With him. The panic that had overtaken me the first few weeks after I had been captured did not rise in me now. I had learned not to panic; the Necros had taught me a lot of things. None of them I had wanted to know.

  
The Lord Marshal approached me. His face was unreadable, his eyes hidden. Usually I was good at reading emotions, but I got nothing from this man. Unreadable. It was a good description. Instinctively I pulled at my bindings as he got closer. He stood before me for a time, then started to circle me. I was surprised that he could fit between the wall and chair. Seriously, this man was huge, and the gap between me and the wall didn’t look like it would fit him. He stopped in front of me, stepping so I was between his legs. My face was at the same level with his… I stopped that thought before I finished it. The fact had not been overlooked by others. I tried as a general rule not to live in the past.  
He reached out and pulled my chin up sharply. He could have done it harder, made it hurt, but he didn’t. The action seemed to be more so he could look at me, as opposed to force me to look at him. I kept my eyes away from him while he studied me. It seemed like he stood there looking at me forever.

  
“What’s your name?” His voice was deep, so deep. A voice like that should have sent a shiver down my spine. Instead I found it strangely comforting.

  
I answered without looking at him. “They call me Darla.” It had started out as ‘Darlin’.

  
I saw him smirk out of the corner of my eye. “I didn’t ask what they call ya.”

  
None of them knew my real name. I looked at him uncertainly, not really knowing if I should tell him. Anyone else, it wouldn’t even cross my mind. Then again, no one else had ever asked.

  
“Tell me,” he ordered, and I realized how dangerous this man could be. A new wave of fear washed over me. Not panic of what was to come, but fear of the man himself. He cocked an eyebrow, as if he could sense the renewed fear.

  
Giving in, I said almost too quite to hear, “Rya, my name’s Rya.”

  
“Was that so hard?” he asked in an almost playful tone. I pointedly didn’t answer. From his belt he pulled out a knife. No, not a knife. It was home-made, the kind a prisoner would make in a slam. They had a name for that, but I couldn’t think of it. Slowly he laid it across the bare skin of my thigh, then brought the tip down my leg. It was cold, and I wondered what he would do with it. He knelt down and cut the ropes binding my ankle. Only one. A moment of surprise as I stared at him open-mouthed. What the hell was he playing at? I brought my legs together; I hated being forced to sit in such a vulnerable position, and was oddly grateful to him for not making me.

  
Again he positioned himself with me between him. “How old are you?” Another question I hadn’t heard before. This man was full of surprises. I looked at him and what was intended to sound venomous came out simply puzzled. “Why do you care?”

  
“Answer the question.” His voice demanded obedience, and I almost had to force myself not to answer. I wasn’t playing this damn game of his. No way. I shook my head once, not letting myself speak. He smirked again, and I had a feeling I wasn’t going to like his method of persuasion.

  
Kneeling down on the edges of the chair, he straddled me. Interestingly, he didn’t put any of his weight on me; we were touching, but he kept the pressure on his knees and legs. His full weight, being the muscle-bound god he was, would be far more than I could handle at my measly 110 pounds. It was a strange, almost natural consideration on his part, despite the fact that he had taken this new position specifically to make me squirm. The contradictory acts confused me. Nothing about this man made sense.

  
Leaning in close, he spoke next to my ear. I could feel him pressed against me, and I vainly tried to pull my hands free, to free myself from him. “Answer me.” He said it softly, not needing the force behind the order; or so he thought.  
“No.” I meant it to sound confident, forceful; I sounded breathless and weak. ‘Damn, I can’t even speak right around him!’

  
He pulled away from me, then, almost too fast for me to see, brought back his hand as if to slap me. I flinched. He gave me another smirk, and lowered his hand. Leaning close to my ear, close enough for me to feel his breath against my neck, he said, “It would be better if you didn’t make me go through with that threat. Answer me.”

  
I looked at him with a pleading look. My brain wasn’t working; I couldn’t process anything. That, along with the fact that his voice demanded an answer, made my willpower crumple. “Seventeen,” I said quietly. For the first time, he reacted to what I had said. Before I hadn’t been able to read anything in his face, but for a second, he slipped. He looked shocked, as if I had slapped him. I almost chuckled at the mental image of me doing just that. For some reason, my age upset him.

  
Just as quickly as it had come, the emotion was gone, Hidden beneath the stone look he kept on. “How long have you been here?”

  
“How long have I been their whore?” I asked with contempt in my voice (finally my voice had the tone I wanted it to); I hated them all for what they had done to me. But this man, he wasn’t one of them. I got the feeling he hated them as much as I did. I looked away, “Three years.”

  
He cursed, then smoothly rose back to his feet. It was a graceful movement. He knelt down and freed my other ankle. I resisted the urge to kick him; he was still holding a knife. There was a pattern here.

  
To my relief he stood in front of me again. “I resent this reward/reprimand thing you’re doing,” I told him, annoyed, “I’m not a dog you can train.” He was just playing with me; I didn’t like it.

  
Again he gave me that damn smirk. “This,” he said with amusement in his voice, “would be the perfect time to call you a ‘bitch’.”

  
I gave him the best death glare I could manage. “Go to hell.”

  
“Been there, done that.” For some reason, I believed him.

  
With a parting smirk, he walked away from me. I watched warily as he stripped off his shirt, boots, and goggles. Turning back to me, I gasped. His eyes were silver, with a metallic sheen to them. I had never seen anything like it before. I could feel myself melting into those eyes.

  
He closed the distance between us, again standing with me between his legs. I sighed in frustration. “What are you playing at?” I asked.

  
He smirked at me. “I don’t know what you mean.” I was beginning to hate that smirk. Not only because it was condescending, but also because it did funny things to my body. I had never felt like this before. I was far from a virgin, but that had not been my choice; I had never freely given myself to a man before.

  
“You’re just screwing with me,” I said, and to my horror I sounded husky.

  
He lowered his head to my ear, “Babe, I haven’t begun to screw you yet. I plan on it though.”

  
“Bad pun,” I breathed as he started nuzzling at my neck. He worked his way to the hollow of my throat. I let my head fall back, allowing him better access. Quickly he untied my wrists and pulled me into his arms. He moved so fast that I barely had time to gasp. In an almost callous way, he dumped me on the bed. I yelped in surprise as I bounced. As quickly as he had scooped me up, he was on me. His hands were smooth and efficient as they untied my shirt, removing it. The only thing I had on was my skirt, which wasn’t really anything at all.

  
“Beautiful,” he said slowly, and took one of my nipples in his mouth. I bucked under him, a moan escaping me. This man was incredible. He ignited a fire in me I had never felt, didn’t know I could feel. Not after the things the Necro bastards had done to me.

“I don’t even know your name.” I said, my voice breathless, though for different reasons than before.

“Riddick,” he said simply. He moved to my naval, and I moaned again. I ran my hands over his muscled shoulders and back: seriously ripped. Despite that, his hands were soft, gentle. Again he went lower. For the first time in over two years, I felt myself start to panic. What if it still hurt? Oh god, I didn’t know how to do this. He picked up on my sudden change in mood. Kissing my jaw, he asked why I was afraid. I stammered a few times, unable to speak my fears; they sounded silly, even to me.

  
Smirking at me, again, he asked, “You’re not a virgin, are you?”

  
“Not literally, no.”

  
He stopped kissing me, but his hands continued to roam my skin, and I found the touch comforting. “What does that mean?”

  
I looked into his eyes, and knew. My fears vanished as if they had never been. “It doesn’t matter, don’t stop.” I said firmly, pressing my body closer to his. He complied, but something about the look he gave me said I would have to explain later. I didn’t care, as long as he kept touching me. I realized that at some point, he had rid himself of his pants, but I couldn’t remember when. I still had my hardly-there skirt, but he simply pushed it aside.

  
His hand grabbed my hips, moving them into place. With one powerful thrust, he was in me. He set a fast pace, and my mind just about exploded trying to keep up.

  
It didn’t hurt.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Furyan's Pet](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12559648) by [vampiregirl93](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vampiregirl93/pseuds/vampiregirl93)




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